


Storm Warning

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Series, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 09:33:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Confrontation at the loft - Simon POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storm Warning

## Storm Warning

by Daydreamer

Author's website:  <http://www.geocities.com/daydreamersden>

Characters not mine -- story is.

Number 28 in the Leaving series

Contains references to child abuse -- sexual and physical.

This story is a sequel to: In the Eye 

* * *

I try Jim again as I set out to pick up Naomi. I've been trying on and off since I left her this morning, but I always got the voice mail. Ellison _never_ turns his cell off and I'm really starting to get worried that something has happened with the kid. If I can't reach them before I get to the loft with Naomi, I'm going to make her sit in the car while I find out what's going on. But my contingency plan is for naught as Jim answers the phone and barks, "Ellison," in my ear. 

"Well, hello to you, too," I say back, still wondering what the hell was going on and not at all reassured by the tone Jim uses to answer. 

But he apologizes right away. "Sorry. The phone was -- loud." 

"Ah," I say, thinking it was another one of those sentinel things I really don't want to know about, don't want to think about. Still... "You must have been listening to something." 

"Someone," he says and I resist the urge to slam my head into the steering wheel. Now we're getting into another area I really don't want to think about. And not because I'm a homophobe -- I just don't need to know all the salient details about my officers' personal lives. Of course, these two are different. They're not just my subordinates, they're my friends. 

So I ask, "Why was your phone off?" 

"Had to workout," Jim explains gruffly. 

Hmmm -- I'm trying to take that one apart. _Had_ to workout? Again, I'm wondering if something is wrong, but Ellison, being Ellison, isn't going to volunteer anything without a push. And I decide a little teasing might be the right push. "Oh, really?" I say slowly. "Workout? Is that what you're calling it now? Going to the 'Jim?'" I laugh, tickled by my own pun. All right, all right -- I know my sense of humor needs some work. 

But Jim jumps back at me almost before I can finish enjoying my own joke. "Yes, the gym," he says all snarky-voiced. "Fitness center at the U." 

Fitness center? Ellison? I can't wrap my mind around it and the only thing I can think that would have gotten Ellison into a fitness center is -- Sandburg. But I can't imagine why. The kid never works out. Doesn't have to with the schedule he keeps. Wouldn't have time, even if he needed to. Thank God he's blessed with a good metabolism and eats like a rabbit -- lots of green and leafy things. I've let Jim stall long enough. "Is the kid all right?" I demand to know. 

Ellison sighs, then says, "Yeah," and launches into a fairly shorthand version of what I'm sure was a fairly long morning that ended with him falling apart. He ends with the prosaic, "We took a nap. He's in the shower now, but I think he's good. Strong. Ready." 

I take a deep breath and wonder how serious this little breakdown of Jim's was. I'm wondering if he's fit for duty, wondering if I need to order a mandatory psych for the two of them. I'm kicking myself while I'm thinking it, but I've got to think it. It's my job, my responsibility, and sometimes I hate what it makes me think, makes me do. I decide to shelve that whole area for the time being -- I can always come back to it later after I've assessed the situation. For now, I just need to know how my friend is. "And you?" I ask quietly. "Are you ready?" 

I hit a stoplight and wait, then Jim says, "I don't know." I can only imagine what that admission must have cost him, even made to me, his friend. Ellison likes to think he's ready for anything. It shows how serious this thing with the kid is -- he'd have never made such a concession about anything related to Carolyn. He'd have never dealt with her the way he does Sandburg either. I guess it's true, finding the right person does make all the difference. 

The light changes and I move forward as Jim adds, "But, it's not about me. I had my turn this morning. This is about Blair and -- he's ready." 

"Does he know she's coming?" I ask as I stop again, another light. I hate this stretch of road out by the airport. Short little blocks, lights at every intersection. None of them synchronized. Traffic's always a bitch. Somebody should do something. 

"No," Jim tells me. "I didn't want to say anything until I was sure." In the bathroom, I hear the shower go off. "I'll tell him before you get here. 

I'm pissed, but I have enough sense to know it's not just because a jackass teenager in a green Jeep just cut me off. I also know I need to tone it down before I pick up the woman who's really behind my anger. "I'm on my way to get her now," I tell Jim and I hang up. He knows we'll be there soon and he needs time to talk to Sandburg. 

I make it down the next few blocks without killing anyone and make a right into the hotel parking lot. The uniform I assigned is sitting in his car, sipping coffee. The sky is dark -- storm clouds gathering. I park, walk over to the patrol car and start to tap on the window, but I see the cop has already seen me, recognized me and he's putting the window down. 

"Captain Banks, sir," he says by way of greeting. 

"Officer. Any problems?" 

The uniform shakes his head, then shrugs. "Not on my end. Tried to take a cab a few hours ago, got a little, uhm, irate, when I refused to let her leave." 

I smile. So I had read things right. "What'd she do?" 

"Tried to charm me. Pretty lady, all right, but when she saw I wasn't going to budge, well, let's just say charm went out the window." 

"She's still in there?" I jerk a thumb over my shoulder, pointing at the hotel. 

"Oh, yeah," the guy half-groans. "Comes to that window right there," he points, "every half hour or so and gives me the evil eye." 

I nod, glance up as the blinds on the aforementioned window move. 

The cop looks at his watch. "Right on time." 

"All right, Wilson," I say, "You're relieved. Thanks." 

"Glad to help, sir." 

I step back as he dumps his coffee and watch as he drives away. Hands in my coat pocket, I stand there and stare up at the gathering storm clouds. This is going to be a doozy. 

Inside, I move through the lobby quickly, take the elevator up to Naomi's room, and knock. She opens the door immediately and I am not fooled by the bright, cheerful smile on her face. 

"Simon," she says, as if we were old friends. 

We'll see how long she plays that game once I start laying out the rules. 

"You ready?" I ask. 

"Of course," she trills. She's at the mirror, fussing with her hair, then she turns to look at me. "Simon," she says, her voice serious, "I've had some time to think today. I'm just appalled -- _appalled_ \-- at my behavior. I really don't know what's gotten into me." 

She laughs, a little embarrassed, and shakes her head. I can't help but notice how it makes her hair move in just the right way. Pretty, eye-catching, attractive. I wonder how many times she's practiced that little shake. 

"Blair is my _life,_ " she says dramatically. "I would do _anything_ for him." 

I bite my lip, then scrub my face with my hands. She almost sounds like she means it. She's good. "Good, Naomi," I reply. "That's good." 

She looks in the mirror again, smiles, then lowers her eyes coyly. "I, uh, just wanted you to know that I'm fully on board, Simon." She looks at me from beneath lowered eyelids, sincerity shining from her brown orbs. 

I swallow hard. She really is very good. I'm almost buying it. Almost. "And, again, Naomi, that's good." I stop, jam my hands in my pockets, then pull them out. "He need you hear what you have to say, Naomi. I just want to make sure you know what it is that you're going to say." 

She turns to face me and she looks like a schoolgirl getting ready to recite her lessons. 

"I'm going to say, and Simon, you have to believe me, this is the truth -- I'm going to tell him that I didn't know those horrible things were happening to him. And I didn't. I'd have never left my precious baby, my darling boy, with those people if I thought for one moment someone would hurt him." She pulls herself up to her full height, back straight, chin jutting out. "I'm not that kind of mother," she says righteously. 

"Good. Fine. Whatever." The words roll off my tongue before I can stop them and I resist the urge to slap my hand over my mouth. I promised myself I was going to do whatever it took to get her there, get her to say what needed to be said. My sarcasm isn't going to help the cause. 

She has hurt in her eyes as she looks at me and I force myself to speak. "Naomi," I begin, "this isn't about what kind of mother you were or weren't. This is about what Blair needs to hear. What will help him. What will make all this crap he's dealing with more -- dealable." Dealable? Did I really just say that? I rub my face again and shake my head. "If it helps, I do believe that you didn't realize how serious the damage your leaving him would be." There. That's the best I can offer her in the way of absolution. 

She still looks hurt, her lower lip sticks out in -- I can't help it -- a very attractive pout. She whirls away, grabs her bag and asks, "Are we ready?" 

I nod and follow her out the door. 

The trip to the loft is mostly silent. Naomi is -- annoyed. I think she expected me to buy into her little game. Or, maybe she's annoyed because it's not a game and she can't convince me. Maybe she really did have an epiphany. Maybe the thought of losing all contact with her son did have an impact and she's serious when she says she wants to help -- to do the right thing. 

I pull up in front of the loft, turn the car off, and sit for a moment. I can feel Naomi's eyes on me. I take a deep breath and turn to look at her. "Do you know what you're going to say?" I ask. 

She looks so hurt, wounded, and again I wonder if I'm selling her short. Maybe all of this is sinking in with her. She's been in denial a long time - that doesn't go away overnight. 

She cocks her head at me, studying me as if she's trying to see what is going on in my head. Her eyes are wide as she says, "I want to do what's best for Blair." She closes her eyes for a second, seems to be composing herself, then opens them to look at me. "I don't think I can go in with a prepared speech. Blair needs to talk -- he needs to talk to me." She pauses again and I'm really thinking this is real, she means it this time. I think she really means it. She adds, "I'll know what to say based on what he says. I think," she falters a little, pain seeping into her voice, "I think he needs to take the lead." 

Damn! She really does sound like she's been thinking about this -- like she really wants what's best for the kid. I reach into a pocket, pull out a cigar and stick it in my mouth. I don't light it though and that's because I'm kicking myself again for all the ugly things I've been thinking about her. It couldn't have been easy for her -- raising a kid by herself and she was so young. She really was young. Maybe she didn't know. Or maybe she just couldn't let herself know. She was so young -- she didn't know any better. Didn't know there were places she could have gone to get help -- help for herself and her son. She couldn't have been a complete washout as a parent. I mean -- look at the kid. He turned out pretty damn good -- for a long-haired, tree-hugging, non-violent pacifist, that is. I clear my throat and bite back the urge to apologize. I may give her the benefit of the doubt for the time being, but she doesn't have to know. It won't hurt to keep her on her toes for now. 

"I think you're right. Just make sure you say the right things at the right time. No passing the blame -- suck it up and tell him you should have done better. Tell him you're sorry." 

She nods and I open my door. The clouds overhead are really heavy now and the air is electric. The skin on my arms rises and I fight the urge to push it back down. When this storm breaks, it'll be like all hell breaking loose. Hope no one gets hurt. I shake myself and look up in time to see Naomi entering the building. I follow quickly and catch up with her just in time to keep the elevator doors from closing. She looks surprised, then asks, "You're coming up?" 

I nod. "They're my friends. I might be needed." 

She just gives me this appraising look, as if she's reassessing me, reassessing my role in all this, but she doesn't speak. 

We hit the third floor and I walk to the door, Naomi trailing me now. I lift my hand, but before I can knock, the door opens. "I hate it when you do that." 

Jim looks at me, and I know that there won't be any wisecracks today. "Simon..." he says, and his voice breaks in the middle of my name. Oh, shit. This is bad. I give him a long look then nod and stride across the room. I shed my coat, throw it on a chair, then settle myself at the table. I shift the chair just a tad until I can see Sandburg on the patio, just sitting. I can still see Jim at the door. I can see everything, but I'm out of the way here at the table. This is where I plan to stay, unless I'm needed. 

Naomi stands by the door. She looks almost afraid to come any further into the room. I wonder if she's going to try to bolt. Jim looks thunderous - I glance back at the sky to see it's almost completely dark now. Winds whip across the balcony and Sandburg pushes his hair out of his face. 

"Get it right," Jim rumbles and I'm reminded of the sound a big cat makes. Low, fearsome, deadly. "Tell him it wasn't his fault." 

Naomi gives this aborted little nod, but Jim's not satisfied. 

"Tell him he didn't do anything wrong." 

Ellison's voice is -- scary -- and I can see the fear on Naomi's face as he strips away any illusions she might have left. "Lie to him -- tell him you didn't know." 

She colors, prettily, I have to admit, but looks away. I can see the tension in her body and again I wonder if she'd really be stupid enough to try to run. But Jim reaches out and grabs her, his fingers like a vise on her shoulder. I wonder idly if I should intervene, but one quick look at the still form on the terrace and I have no trouble staying in my seat. 

"Convince him, Naomi," Jim demands. "Convince him you would never have left him alone like that if you'd really known what was going on." 

He lets her go and I imagine it takes some self-control on her part to keep from rubbing her shoulder. She just stands there, looking at Jim. Is she waiting for permission or instruction? 

Ellison breathes deeply, then commands, "Get yourself together and go to him." 

I watched her -- fascinated. I'm reminded of an actor preparing for a part -- and that reminder doesn't help to convince me she is sincere. She closes her eyes, seems to clear her mind as she takes a deep breath. She holds it, then breathes out and -- her face is transformed. The fear, the worry is gone. She smiles beatifically, reaches up and pats Jim on the cheek, then drifts toward the balcony. 

Jim looks surprised for a moment. He turns and watches Naomi head out to her son. He looks at me, holds my eyes for a full thirty-second count, then moves to the kitchen and begins to putter about. 

I can see the balcony from my seat and I shift my attention. The patio door is partly open and sounds from the street drift in. Thunder rumbles in the distance and then I hear Naomi speak. 

"Remember when we used to talk?" she asks her son. 

It seems like an odd opening to me. I'd have expected her to ask him how he was. Or to start with an apology. But, maybe she does know how to handle him. Sandburg's a talker -- so maybe they used to talk. Or maybe there's some hidden code there. When Daryl wants to talk to me, he never says, "Hey, Dad, let's talk." It's usually, "Wanna shoot some hoops?" And then, whatever it is that needs discussing, gets discussed in between rim shots and free throws. 

I can't see Sandburg's face -- just the back of his head. I can see that she's got her hand on his neck and is playing with his hair. It's an intimate gesture, but he still seems tense. His back is straight, his arms are stiff on the armrests of the chair. I'm thinking she's not reading his body language if she thinks she can be touching him like that. 

And sure enough, I've read him better than his mother, because when he speaks, the words are harsh and cold. "Remember when your words mattered to me? When _you_ mattered?" 

I can't look away. I feel like a voyeur, but I can't tear my eyes away for more than a quick glance at Jim. His jaw is tight and he's scrubbing the immaculate counters, so I'm thinking he can sense even more than me. Well, of course he can sense more than me -- he's a sentinel. 

I turn my attention back to the couple on the terrace. Naomi has moved her hand. No longer stroking his hair, she laid it daintily on his forearm. It pisses me off and I can feel my own jaw tense. I clench my fists. I want to yell, "Get your hands off him, lady! Can't you see he doesn't want to be touched?" At least not by her. 

She's arrogant, assuming liberties that aren't hers to take. And she proves her arrogance when she says, "They matter." 

Sandburg makes this little abbreviated noise, something strangled that comes from deep in his gut, but she overlooks it completely. 

"I'm important to you, Blair," she goes on. _I_ matter." 

The sound of the brush on the counter distracts me for a moment. Fury is clear on Jim's face and if he scrubs any harder on that counter, the color will be coming off, to say nothing of the formica itself. 

Sandburg sighs and rolls his shoulders. It looks like he's trying to shake off the exhaustion of the whole thing, to gather himself to deal with her. He makes that little sound again, then says, "You'll always mean something to me, Naomi." He pushes her hand off his arm and turns to Jim for support. I follow where his eyes go, but Ellison is scrubbing the counter -- head down. Idiot, I think affectionately. I guess he just can't bear to watch anymore than I can take my eyes away. 

Sandburg sighs again and says, "But, I'm not the one who screwed up." 

He's doing better than I expected. He's firm, clear, concise. Knows what he wants to say and is saying it. Jim was right -- the kid was ready. Now, if Naomi will just do her part and tell him she's sorry, tell him she didn't know, tell him she'd never have left him if she did know. Beg a little. Grovel. I grin through thinned lips at the thought of her begging for forgiveness. She could use a little humility, yes, she could. 

Sandburg's speaking again and I don't want to miss it so I focus once more. "You know, up until a few months ago, I was actually naive enough to believe that you loved me as much as I love you. How stupid of me to think that nothing would ever touch us." 

He's steady, rational, but even I can hear the lonely child who wants his mother's approval. The child who wants to be reassured that Mommy does, indeed, love him. It makes my head hurt. Or maybe that's the way I'm grinding my teeth. I open my mouth and try to force my jaw to relax. 

Thunder rumbles again and then again -- the only sound in the still air. Even the wind seems quiet. It's the calm before the storm, but you can feel it coming. The air is electric -- the world seems to be waiting for nature to release its wrath. It's coming. 

Naomi looks over her shoulder, a brief glance at Ellison, then says, "Nothing touched you, honey. You were perfect." 

Ho - ly shit! How the hell could she say that? How dare she say that? What the hell does that mean -- nothing touched him? Has she not heard anything she's been told. Something sure as hell did touch him -- something that should never have even been near him! I shake my head in disgust. I can't believe this woman! 

And Sandburg? Sandburg sounds so lost when he echoes, "Nothing touched me?" Lost and alone and scared. There's nothing like the brilliant professor in his voice. No sign of the hyperactive police observer. Just -- a lost little boy. I've heard that tone from Daryl. He used it once and it was the only time I ever want to hear it. Never again. It was when he asked me, after Joan and I separated, "Dad -- was it something I did?" It broke my heart and it breaks my heart now to hear it from Sandburg. So lost, so confused, so unsure. I want to gather him up, tell him everything will be okay then toss his mother off the balcony. I settle for grinding my teeth some more and bearing down hard on the table. Wish I had a wall to pound. 

I'm waiting, literally on the edge of my seat, for Naomi's response. And despite the fact that she's pouting, she says the right thing. "Please, Blair -- we have to try and get through this. I know that I messed up, honey, but you have to believe me when I tell you -- I didn't know..." 

I sigh a little myself. That's a turn in the right direction. At least she's trying to tell him, trying to make it right. Who knows if her words are true? Who cares? As long as Sandburg can hold on to them and it helps him, I sure as shit don't. 

Lightning flashes and the storm breaks and I'm thinking that's okay. It's out in the open now. They can come in and talk. Rain begins to fall and the calm is over as the wind whips up again. 

I'm expecting Sandburg to give her a hard time -- a little at least. Maybe ask how she could have missed it. Ask why she didn't ask more questions. Even ask her why she didn't believe him. But I'm expecting more of the rational, steady, prepared Sandburg that I've seen so far. I'm not prepared for the vitriolic exclamation that escapes him. 

"Didn't know?" he accuses. "Didn't know? Oh, God." He rises and I glimpse his face. He's pale -- too pale -- and he looks sick. He scrambles away from his mother, tucks himself against the wall just out of my sight, then scuttles left toward the patio door. Jim's already there, waiting. 

I'm having serious doubts about the advisability of having brought Naomi over here now. Sandburg looks sick -- really sick. He's swaying on his feet, only kept there by his partner's strength. Jim is holding him tightly clasped against his own chest, and whispering in his ear. I see Sandburg nod almost imperceptibly and then he sucks in a huge lungful of air. That seems to steady him a little, but he's still clinging to Jim. 

He breathes three or four deep breaths then glares at his mother. She's still standing on the terrace, the rain falling sporadically around her. "I can't do this! I can't look at you and know what you did, Naomi." His fingers open and close where he grips Jim's arm and I can see that he's leaning heavily into the older man, letting his partner carry most of his weight. "It sickens me, don't you get it?" He breathes again then his voice cracks and his breathing falters. Jim is still whispering, probably reminding him to keep breathing. "I've been... doing a lot of thinking since you -- since..." One hand leaves the security of Jim's arm and flaps uselessly in the air. "I've... I've decided I don't want to see you again." 

There! He's said it. Not what I expected. Not at all how I saw this little meeting going. But, hey, I can sure as hell live with his decision. And despite the fact that he issued his decision in a slightly quavering voice, there was no question as to the finality of it. 

Naomi's eyes are wide and disbelieving. "Blair!" she cries. She looks crushed. Pain is naked on her face, in her eyes. She shakes and one hand reaches out in a quickly aborted motion. She really and truly looks devastated and I'm thinking Sandburg hit the right button. He really got through to her this time. 

Jim seems to be taking it all in as well. His normally impassive face flashes with a brief glimpse of compassion. I feel the same way. The woman seems truly in pain. Blair is studying her as well and, I think, reaching the same conclusions. Emotions flit across his face. Sorrow. Anxiety. Confusion. Distress. But then, all emotion disappears and he looks blankly at his mother. How the hell did he do that? Where did he stuff those emotions? Then I remember -- he's been stuffing his emotions for years. He's a pro at it. 

Lightning flashes furiously and it seems to set him off. The blank look vanishes and rage distorts his features for a moment. He stiffens, then the blank look returns. His voice is cold, not at all like his usual speaking voice. And while the words are polite, the subtext is devastating. "I appreciate the fact that you came all the way back here to talk to me, but the truth is, a short delay on your way to somewhere else and a quick apology aren't enough to wipe away what you did!" 

The sky opens up; rain pours down. Sandburg is shaking and Jim tows him further into the kitchen. Naomi scurries in behind them and even pulls the patio door shut all the way. The sound of raindrops on the concrete is muted from a ferocious rampage to a steady pounding. The storm is upon us. 

Blair -- patient, compassionate, understanding Blair -- trembles with the violence of his emotions. He clings to Jim, his fingers clawing at the older man's arm, leaving red welts in their wake. "This is my safe harbor, Naomi. You aren't -- safe -- for me." Fury edges every word; white hot and painful, they singe the air. "You didn't keep me safe when I was a child and now, well, now, my emotions, my _feelings_ aren't safe around you." 

He claws at Jim again but Jim only holds him closer. 

"I want to be away from you for awhile, not to be confronted by you and your trite attempts at remorse!" The words swirl in the air between mother and son, storm-tossed by this gale of violent emotion. "You almost destroyed me." 

I shift my hands, moving them to clutch the sides of the table and wonder if it will break beneath my passion. 

Sandburg is still talking and it's painful to hear. I hate this woman -- hate what she did, hate how she behaves, hate what she represents. And yet -- I can't help but feel some sense of pity for her. The words he throws at her, the anger, the fury -- it's enough to destroy a parent. How can she live with herself, knowing how she failed her child? 

"Anything we had as mother and child, you've ruined it with your selfishness," he goes on. "Everything we had -- everything that I thought was worth something! You took my life and ripped it to shreds because of your own lack of integrity and that's not something I can live with." 

He's angry, he's hurt, he's barely able to stand, but there's nothing wrong with his thinking. He's nailed it right on the head. A complete lack of integrity. No adherence to moral or ethical principles. Though in all fairness, she seems to have no moral or ethical principles -- or at best, they're pretty fluid -- so she can't very well abide by them. 

"I won't have a relationship with someone who has so little respect for me." 

And he got that part as well. That's what it all comes down to -- no respect. Parents are guilty of it all the time. They don't see children as real people. I'm not sure how some people perceive their kids. As pets? Or property? But not as people. And certainly not as people who deserve respect. Children learn what they live. Sandburg must have gotten the good stuff from somewhere, probably his adopted grandmother I've heard so much about. And thank God, thank God, that was enough. What the hell did Naomi live with that twisted her like this? Children learn what they live. 

Naomi's afraid. I see the fear in her eyes and again I can't help but sympathize. To lose my child -- to have him dismiss me from his life like this -- it would terrify me as well. She's pleading wordlessly, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. She reaches out again, then stops and drops her hand. "Honey," she says, her voice sad and low, "I can understand you needing space -- but not to see me again? Do we have to be that -- final?" 

Sandburg's pale again -- very pale, and he sways on his feet. God, this is so hard for him. For all of us. I want it to be over. I hate dealing with emotions and I'm not very good at it. I just want it to be over. I want Jim to be able to sleep at night and to not have to worry all the time. I don't want to have to worry that I'm going to have to bail him out, or worse, visit him in jail, because he's killed someone who hurt his partner. Though, truth be told, Jim knows how to accomplish that little act without getting caught. I want Sandburg to know that nothing that happened was his fault and I want him to know that his mother didn't willingly leave him to monsters -- whether that part is true or not. I even want Naomi to be able to go back to being the carefree, slightly ditzy woman who drifts in and out of our lives. I just want it to be over. 

But -- you can't always get what you want, can you? 

"You're so important to me, Blair," Naomi says, her voice still soft. "I tell people all the time how important you are to me." 

Sandburg's got that confused look on his face. The child inside him who wants desperately to believe his mother is at war with the man who knows what his mother can be like. 

Naomi's voice falls even lower as she says, "I -- I need you." 

It seems real enough. The parent in me can't believe that she could be faking this level of pain, this level of hurt. And I have no problem at all believing that a mother needs her son. I couldn't live -- wouldn't want to live -- without my son in my life. 

But then -- she speaks again and fury washes over me. 

"How could you do this to me?" 

Selfish, selfish, selfish bitch! You just haven't gotten it, have you? This is not about you. It. Is. Not. About. You. My head aches from all the yelling I am doing inside it. My jaw aches from where my molars are about ground through. And my fingers ache from clenching the damn table to keep myself from rising and pitching her out the door. 

Jim's chanting in Blair's ear, loud enough for me to hear, "Breathe, baby, breathe." 

And Naomi is looking at everyone as if we've all lost our minds and she doesn't understand why we aren't rushing to defend her. 

But Sandburg, who I half-expected to drop to the ground, pulls out of Jim's embrace and stalks toward his mother. He straightens, growing tall and strong before my eyes and says, "Don't do this to you? How the hell can you be so incredibly self-absorbed? I didn't abandon you, Mom! I didn't leave you alone to be fucked when you were a child. I didn't look the other way when you were being beaten! And I sure as hell didn't ask you to pretend it never happened!" 

Sandburg stands there for a moment, then the defiance seems to sort of slide out of him. His nose is running, he's got snot on his upper lip and he drags his sleeve across his face. Doesn't really clean him up -- just spreads it around -- but Jim is handing him a tissue at the same time he pulls him back, wrapping his arms around him. 

Sandburg is angry -- furious, even. But Ellison -- damn! The man looks murderous. When I decided to stay, to horn in on this little family reunion, it was because I really thought they might need me. Might need me to get Naomi out of here, or possibly, to help with the kid if it all overwhelmed him. It didn't occur to me that I might have to keep my detective from killing his partner's mother, but I'm wondering just that very thing right now. 

Sandburg blows his nose and fumbles with the tissue until it finally falls from his hands. It hits the ground, thunder shakes the building and he begins to cry, all pretty much at the same time. 

I hate this. 

Blair is hugging himself. He's wrapped in Ellison's more than capable arms and yet, he's hugging himself like a child who's about to be scolded. But then, that same shift occurs and he shakes off the child and stares at his mother, issuing a challenge. "Who was it, Naomi? Who?" 

Naomi is taken aback. I see that she didn't expect that question and I'm not sure she understands it. She steps backwards, loses her balance and reaches out to hang onto the counter. "What are you talking about?" 

Sandburg shoves away from Jim again, demanding in an increasingly loud voice, "Who was it that you had to leave me for?" 

Jim looks panicked. I can see clearly that this was not what he planned to have happen. He was thinking that Naomi would come by, apologize, convince Blair that she didn't know what was happening all those times she left him and then she'd go her merry way. That would then leave Sandburg free to move forward, secure in the knowledge that while his mother was young and inexperienced, and more than a little ditzy, she wasn't totally callous about his needs. Secure in the knowledge that he was loved and she suffered now because he had suffered then. Secure in the knowledge that she felt guilty and wished she'd done things differently. 

How the hell did we get so far off plan? 

"Was it a man?" Sandburg demands. His voice continues to rise, in both pitch and volume. "Who, Naomi? Was he tall?" Blair's crying, sobbing now, and the words are getting harder and harder to make out. "Was he rich? Was he... was he worth it?" 

Naomi stares at him and something dark flashes across her face. Her hand clenches and I rise without realizing it. No way is she going to lay a hand on him. 

Blair leaps away from Jim just as a huge flash of lightning lights up the darkened loft. The thunder follows immediately, loud, harsh, close. I'm hoping Jim is compensating. I spare a look for him, see he's jumped after Sandburg and has grabbed him again. His head is down, he's whispering, but Blair is fighting this time, wriggling to be let go. Jim releases him, reluctantly I can tell, and then, dear God, I can't believe this. Sandburg grabs a knife and stabs himself! 

We're all frozen, afraid to move. Even the shock on Naomi's face is real. No way she could fake this. I have to strain to hear Blair speak over the pounding raindrops. 

"I didn't matter, Jim," he murmurs, disbelief evident in his tone. Any illusion, any hope of pretending is shattered with those heartbroken words. "She's my mother -- and I didn't matter." 

I move forward, positioning myself to grab Sandburg, grab Naomi, grab whichever one Jim wants me to. The kid is bleeding now and even I can smell it. Blood's unique. Once you smell it, you'll never forget it. His shirt has a growing red stain and the knife protrudes from his belly. Thank God he didn't stick it all the way in. He's holding it in place -- it's not deep enough to stay on its own -- but still, this is so dangerous. So dangerous. 

"Even now, I don't matter," Blair says in that defeated tone. He bears down on the knife handle and more blood pulses out. I take another step forward, waiting for Jim's word, but he doesn't speak. Sandburg pushes and more blood spills. 

I look at Jim and see that he's losing it, drifting off to wherever he goes when things overwhelm him. Well, not this time, buddy. 

"I'm nothing!" Sandburg screams and I step forward and smack Ellison in the back of the head. One good, hard blow, and he shakes himself, then looks around, confused. I can see when it all comes back to him because he reaches toward his partner and cries, "You matter!" He's crying, Stone Face Ellison is crying like a baby, tears, snot, shakes, the works. And I completely understand it. He's terrified and so am I. Sandburg doesn't seem to have done any major damage, but that could change in a split second and he could bleed out before our eyes -- before we could get help. I want to give Jim time to talk him down, time to do something, but the seconds are ticking away. We have to get the knife -- now. 

"You matter to me!" Jim cries again. "And you are something. You are!" 

I've moved, Jim's moved, Blair's moved. The only one who hasn't moved and the only one who could actually touch Blair just by reaching out, is Naomi. She just stares at him. 

Ellison looks like he's going to scream any second. "You're the sole reason for my existence on this piece of shit planet!" 

Get the knife, Jim. Get the knife. Hurry, hurry, hurry. 

"Damn it, Blair, please..." Jim pleads, but Sandburg only pushes again, twists the knife, slides it to the side, and I see blood spray. God, did he sever something vital? 

Rain pours -- blood drips onto the floor. 

"Give me the knife, Blair," Jim begs. "Don't do this." 

Jim's reached him. Blair looks away from his mother and turns to stare at his lover. I wait for Jim to move forward, to take the knife, but he seems afraid to move. His arms are out, his eyes plead silently and then he falls to his knees. 

"I'm sorry... I'm a fuck-up. I shouldn't have done this, shouldn't have made her come. Blair, baby, give me the knife." This is Ellison, with his soul laid bare. He'll take it all on himself, the responsibility, the guilt, the pain. Anything to make it better for Sandburg. He's still crying as he says, "I'm too selfish, too greedy to give you up! Please, baby, please -- I love you." 

Sandburg just stares at him, the knife poised, the blood pooling at his feet. His muscles are tensed -- he could rupture something critical at any second. And then Jim says, "I need you..." 

That seems to be it for Blair. He nods and Jim is just -- there. On his feet, across the kitchen, taking the knife, holding him. I spare a brief glance for Naomi -- she looks like she's going to be sick. I've moved, too, and I'm waiting. Jim gives me the knife. I put it on the counter. Then he surprises me and shoves Blair into my arms. I grab him, wrap my arms around him and look down. Ellison is kneeling again, examining the wound with what I know are extended senses. 

"It's not too deep," he reports, the relief evident. 

I still have to ask, "Do we need 911?" 

"No, I can bandage it myself," my ex-Ranger responds. "Get a towel from the bathroom, will you?" he requests as he rises and looks at Sandburg. I can't see his face, not really. I'm holding his back to my chest. He's standing on his own though, even if he leans a little heavily on me. 

Jim takes him and I head to the bathroom, but movement in my peripheral vision makes me jerk my head back. "Don't move," I command, freezing Naomi to the floor. I can't believe she was going to bail at this point. Oh, shit -- yeah, I can believe it. 

My head is spinning. All the questions from earlier about Jim and his breakdown have just come crashing back. Can I let Sandburg into the field? Should I report this? Do I have a choice? How much leeway can I take when it comes to safety? Sandburg's. Ellison's. Others who have to work with them and depend on them. I shove the questions away. Times like this -- _questions_ like this -- make me hate being in command. I shove all of ruthlessly down -- I'll think about it later. I just want to get through now. 

Sandburg's falling apart now -- weeping uncontrollably, which is only increasing the bleeding. Jim's pulled him to the sofa, seated himself and settled Blair half-reclined against him. I kneel and press the towel to the wound. 

I spare a glance for Naomi and she looks -- lost. It's as if this caring, this taking care of, is foreign to her. And for a moment, she seems as if she wishes it weren't so foreign. 

Sandburg struggles a bit and Jim releases him cautiously. He pushes himself to his feet and I growl at him to hold the damn towel. He spares me a smile and an affectionate touch, then obediently holds the bloody towel to his bloody gut. He steps, one, two, three, then reaches out toward his mother. She's got her eyes closed and she shuttered down within herself. It's a pose I've seen more times than I care to admit. She thinks he's going to hit her. But Blair wouldn't hit her, no matter what she did. Not Blair -- never Blair. 

I wonder again what made her the way she is. 

He touches her gently, takes her wrist in his hand. 

Her eyes snap open and she stares at him, her face truly full of pain and regret. "Blair," she whimpers. Just his name. "Blair." 

He watches her, winces when he breathes and pulls at the wound, then says, "Okay." Releasing her, he takes two steps away, then speaks. "I need some time away from you, but then, later, we can talk." 

Gratitude suffuses her face. She smiles, then shocks me when she gently takes his hand and kisses the palm. It's an oddly intimate gesture and I'm left a little unsettled by it. 

"Thank you," she whispers. "Thank you." 

But Blair only yanks his hand back. He shivers, then drops the towel. Jim is there before I can move, on his knees, checking the wound then applying pressure. 

When Blair speaks again, his voice is bitter. "Don't thank me yet." Bitter, cold, and harsh. "I haven't done anything but stalled what might be inevitable." 

Naomi nods understandingly and my heart goes out to her. But then, she looks at me and there is a moment where nothing but triumph shines from her eyes. It was all a game to her -- and she thinks she's won. Any residual sympathy, residual pity I might have still held for her is gone. It was all a game to her. I move to her, almost shove her toward the door. This is over. It's gone on long enough. Sandburg doesn't need this woman. He has what he needs in Jim. And if for some reason, it's not quite enough, he's got me and everybody in the squad and if that's not enough he's got the University and for that matter, the whole damn world. Everyone _but_ Naomi. He doesn't need her. None of us do. 

She tugs, stopping my forward motion. "When?" she asks her son. "When can we talk?" 

Jim's on his feet again, leading Blair back to the couch. "I don't know." Jim fusses, settling his partner down, checking the wound. "I don't know anything right now," Sandburg says, "except that I want you to leave." 

Naomi smiles. "Right," she says and walks past me to the door. I follow, a little more slowly, then look back. Ellison is hovering over Blair, his hand stroking the kid's hair, then checking the wound again. I don't want to just walk out without saying something, but they're so in tune with each other, so tender, I hate to interrupt. 

I clear my throat and when they look my way, ask, "Will you two be okay?" 

Jim nods, then catches my eye and I hear the silent thank you. I shrug. De nada. 

"Good-bye, Blair," Naomi chirps and Sandburg just waves his hand in her direction. It looks more like a get out of here motion to me than anything, but I don't say anything. 

I walk silently to the elevator. Ride down in silence. Exit the building into the rain in total silence. 

Naomi rushes to my car, then stands there, surprised when I don't move. "Simon?" she asks. 

I cut her off with a harsh motion. "Stop," I tell her. "Do not speak to me." 

"But -- what?" she questions, looking up at the rain with annoyance. "Unlock the car. We need to get out of the rain." 

I point to a pay phone on the corner. "Use that," I order. "Call a cab." 

"Simon?" she asks again. "What? Why? I did what you wanted..." 

"Call a cab, Naomi. Get out of here. Don't come back unless you are specifically invited." 

"But, but, but..." 

"No buts. Just go." I shake my head and water flies from my hair. My glasses are fogged. I don't want to see her anyway. 

She looks at me, then flounces toward the door we just exited. "I'll just go back up and use the phone. I can wait in the loft." 

I grab her as she gets close. My fingers dig into her upper arm and I see that look of fear cross her face again. I shove down any pity it might evoke and snarl, "Go away, Naomi. Do not come back." 

"But it's raining," she whines. 

I shrug, release her, and point again. "All the more reason to make that call now. Less time to wait." 

She stares at me, then wheels around and stalks off. 

I stand in the rain and watch. I'm not leaving until I know she's gone. I'll follow the cab, then trail her to the airport and watch her get on the plane. I'm not going to relax until she is completely gone and we don't have to worry about her coming back again. 

I settle back, pull up the collar of my coat and hunch into it a little. The rain is cold, fierce, and yet gentle at the same time. It seems fitting that it's raining, I think. 

If his own mother can't cry for Blair Sandburg, at least Mother Nature can. 

* * *

End Storm Warning by Daydreamer: daydream59@aol.com

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Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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